It's so wonderful to feel the closeness I have with God, and have that certain peace when all is well, or sensing His presence as I bask in His love. I love the rush I get as I look at all creation around me and know I'm the child of the One who made it all! I can't even describe the thrill I experience as I walk through each day, knowing He is walking with me. And who can resist catching their breath at an answered prayer, an unexpected blessing or a dream come true? Nothing compares to the feeling of being loved by the Father.
(Are you picturing a fragrant field swaying in the gentle breeze as butterflies dance around the blossoms? Good. Now listen carefully, and you'll hear the sound of the screeching brakes of an 18 wheeler just before impact. That's it, right there. Now read on, and you'll find the real topic of this post.)
Well, today, I feel like I'm in this alone. I feel the weight of my guilt, the pressure of my future, and an emptiness deep down that I just can't put my finger on. I had thought that by now, I would have been able to begin some kind of full time ministry for God. I yearn for it, yet I know I still have so many shortcomings - how could God ever use me? I don't know what the future holds and I wonder if my deep down desire to reach others was just a pipe-dream. I feel like God will never choose to use me as a writer, a speaker, a friend. I feel like I'm not as good as I should be. I feel afraid. I feel uncertain. I feel alone. I feel, I feel, I feel.
I can't say I'm sitting here typing with a great big "eureka" waiting to jump out at you. I didn't even feel like writing today, but it's a weekend, and that's usually the only time I can set aside any time for myself. My little one keeps poking her head in, laboriously reviewing her current thoughts over and over again, as only a five year old can do. I have a million and one things to do each weekend, and even more now that my kids start school on Monday. I'm trying to figure out how to pull a rabbit out of my hat with the week's menu and school lunches. I have also waited until the last minute to buy school supplies. I'm trying to add two plus two and come up with fifty in my bank account. The car is nearly due for an oil change. The kids are packing old notebooks into last year's backpacks when all their friends have new. I'm eyeballing my daughter's sneakers wondering if a jaunt in the washer will make them look brand new. I'm thinking not, or as the kids say, "Yeah....no".
What a gray, bland, perfectly blah day on the one hand. One the other hand, it's a fidgety, anxious and panic-riddled day filled with worry for the kids, the future, the bills, the car. You name it - if it's negative, it's marching through my brain with all the force of an armored tank. There's no stopping the endless parade of fears which methodically tear holes in the blanket of peace draped over my mind by last night's devotions.
As even my prayers today were telling God all that was wrong, I was hit with a sobering thought. While it's normal for any of us to feel discouraged by the weight of our burdens, it's not normal to pile burden after burden up on our backs and grimly march forward inch by inch, if we have a relationship with God. I think that may have been where I began to slip away. Not only did I try to carry the weight, I began lugging it down the path of my own choosing, by my own strength. It's as though I resented God for letting the tough things come into my life, so somewhere deep down, I said, "Fine! Obviously I have a rotten life ahead of me (look how rotten the past has been), and God isn't helping any, so I guess I'm on my own."
It began by having a few drinks at night. My disease made me shake uncontrollably at times and I couldn't sleep more than a few hours each night. For me, the alcohol was a sedative which eased my symptoms. I didn't even know I had Graves at the time, I only knew that I couldn't stand another moment living in my trembling, jittery skin.
After a while, I had to drink just to get through the evening. This lead to depression and searching for a new anti-depressant every few months. The doctors were great, or so I thought - they gave me pills to help with the panic and anxiety I had begun to feel. I started taking the pills with the alcohol to enhance the effect of both. I have fuzzy memories of one night over ten years ago when the kids were spending the night at their grandmother's, in which my husband kept shaking me to wake me up. He kept yelling for me to stay awake because I stopped breathing each time I passed out. I could barely focus on his words. The next morning, we both vowed we wouldn't drink again. By evening, we hopped in the car to buy a few more.
This memory elbowed it's way through the thoughts of doom and gloom parading through my consciousness today. As I said, I was sobered (no pun) to realize that it's days like these which can make us or break us! If we have enough moments where we shoulder our own fear, hopelessness and anxiety, eventually we wake up one day and wonder how in the world our Savior became someone we consider our enemy.
Jesus said, "Come unto Me, all you who labor and are heavy-ladened and over-burdened, and I will cause you to rest - I will ease and relieve and refresh your souls. Take My yoke upon you and learn of Me; for I am gentle (meek) and humble (lowly) in heart, and you will find rest - relief, ease and refreshment, and recreation and blessed quiet - for your souls. For My yoke is wholesome (useful, good) - not harsh, sharp of pressing, but comfortable, gracious and pleasant; and My burden is light and easy to be borne.
(Matthew 11:28 - 30, Amplified Bible)
I do feel a little better after writing down my honest, if discouraging thoughts. I have determined to share the ups and downs of the past and present with anyone who might find a glimmer of light in their own circumstances as they read mine. I don't have the answers, but I know Who does. Even on the days when I feel so overwhelmed, I am reminded not to live life based on my feelings. My feelings will tell me I'm talking to a brick wall when I cry out to for my Father to carry the burden that is too heavy for me. Worse yet, my feelings will lead me to stop talking to Him altogether because I can't begin to understand His purpose through many of the trials that daily overtake me. I will feel like quitting. I will feel like He doesn't understand what I'm going through. I will feel that if I don't fix all my own problems, they'll never go away.
I need to remind myself to table all my troubling thoughts and doubts, go to His Word, and allow Him to remind me of the truth. I'm well past the day when I questioned whether He was real, or whether His Word was good and faithful. On days like these, I need to draw closer. He never said it would be easy. He said He will never leave me or forsake me. By His grace, I will humble myself and let Him take that dark, oppressive bundle off my shoulders.
Now you can picture that lovely field with butterflies flitting from blossom to stem!
Dear Father,
I'm so sorry I took Your perfect gift of hope that was today and made it into one of despair, wrapped up in my own miserable viewpoint. I'm not going to go on about my guilt over that. I know it's not what You want for me. I'm so grateful for Your patience! I thank you for the gift of hope that will be tomorrow - pure and clean, already waiting for me. I'm amazed that Your mercies are new every morning! Please help my trust and faith in You to be new each morning. It's a blank slate. A new start. A wonderful opportunity to believe! God, You are amazing! It is with Jesus' help, and in His name I pray...
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Monday, August 23, 2010
Lessons From Camp (Part 2)
I was a little nostalgic as I raced through the dining hall. Teen-age girl staff members were shouting at the top of their lungs from the kitchen.
"Last call for dish pit!" a cheerful voice yelled out.
The dining hall staff scrambled to find the last of the pots and pans, clanging big metal containers into the deep sink. The wash girls looked comical, wearing aprons and rubber gloves that reached their upper arms. Everyone was working. Most of them were singing along with a praise CD that was playing in a boom box precariously perched on top of a shelf. They, and I, had just cleaned up after over a hundred hungry campers, families, and adult staff. Peas were scraped off the floor, leftovers were deposited into the 'pig bucket', hundreds of plates, utensils and cooking pans were washed, dried and put away. This work was repeated three times a day. The median age of these staff girls was 16 years old.
I couldn't help it. My eyes grew damp as I listened to their voices lifted in song as they swirled around me, eyeballing the waterfront and the promise of a few hours to bask in the sun. This would be the last time I would serve in the dining hall. It was time for me to pack up the car. Life would be different when I returned home to the 'real world'. In the real world, there would be discord and complaining. That would be even before I left for work in the morning! I yearned to live in a world where each day was spent with others who lifted praises to God, even in the messiness and long, tedious hours of life.
I thought back to the day in 1992, when we pulled up to the hotel room on the camp grounds. I was 25 years old. We had never been to Living Waters before, but had read in a brochure that they offered a Police Retreat. My former husband was a police officer, and we had booked the weekend well ahead of time. What we didn't know was that I would lose another baby, well into my 2nd trimester, the week prior to coming to camp. We decided not to cancel, though the trauma of that loss was only days old. We also didn't know that I would have physical complications for four solid months after the surgery the doctor performed to remove the baby. Had I lost the baby even a week later, I would have had to deliver her naturally.
I was in pain. My milk had come in. My body still believed there was someone who needed nourishment. I had to wait for two days after the time we found out the baby wasn't alive before I could have the surgery, and I numbly floated around the house caressing my full abdomen, feeling like I was a walking graveyard. I loved that baby.
As my husband unloaded the car, I made my way to the bed, and pretty much stayed there the whole weekend because I was hemorrhaging off and on. I did pray, and I thanked God for providing a place for us to be alone with each other. "Grammy" was watching our two preschool children so we could get away. There was no blaming of God - just questioning what He meant in all of this. I cried out to Him in agony. I will never know why until I get to heaven. My baby would have been 17 this year.
Now, at 43 years old, I was watching these 16 and 17 year old girls joyfully live out each day. I thought of my own lost child, and wondered if she might have been with me, had she lived, working alongside the others.
Still reflecting, I went to the laundry cabin and visited with Pearl and Virginia. I grew to love the time I was able to be with these Senior Saints, folding sheets and towels as we enjoyed each others' company.
We began to talk about our children. Pearl, now in her seventies, spoke of her sons. Then she told me a story of a baby she had lost, and shared the dream she has of what life might have been like if her little girl had lived. Virginia, age 84, also spoke of her own miscarriage. Back in her day, she had to bring the baby to the doctor herself. When she asked the doctor to tell her whether it was a boy or a girl, he simply told her that she needed to stop thinking about it. I relayed the details of the loss of my own little baby, and the memories that surfaced while at camp.
We three women, decades apart, shared a common bond. Relief washed over me as I realized I wasn't the only one who marked the years and told myself, "She would have been two, or five, or ten this year". Miscarriage leaves unfinished business in each mother's heart - no matter how many years pass. A reflective silence filled the room as each of us visited our own day of anguish. There was a comfort in remembering our little ones, and knowing, without words, how deep that love went. On some level, it brought about a sense of peace and yes, even joy.
Camp was not the real world. To me, it was more real. We were all free to be ourselves in a way that wouldn't be accepted any other place. We could let our guards down and show ourselves, warts and all. There was a love and understanding that was so desperately missing in the day to day grind outside the camp's sanctuary.
Leaving camp for the last time, honking the horn and wildly waving, I determined to wake joyfully each morning, letting others around me know I loved them. I pray often that God will give me the grace and ability to be the same "me" that I was at camp. The young voices dancing around me lifting up songs to the Lord are now replaced with the ungrateful demands of a hurried and impatient crowd. I can no longer spend time basking in the comaraderie and wisdom of my older friends around the washing machine, but I cherish the sisterhood we were able to share. These, and many other lessons will remain, cherished in my heart.
Dear Father,
Thank You for the experiences and people you send my way to teach me more about Your amazing love, protection and grace. May I not hoard your blessings and peace. Help me to allow You to shower others with your love through me. I thank you ahead of time for your grace on the days when I fall short.
In Jesus' name...
"Last call for dish pit!" a cheerful voice yelled out.
The dining hall staff scrambled to find the last of the pots and pans, clanging big metal containers into the deep sink. The wash girls looked comical, wearing aprons and rubber gloves that reached their upper arms. Everyone was working. Most of them were singing along with a praise CD that was playing in a boom box precariously perched on top of a shelf. They, and I, had just cleaned up after over a hundred hungry campers, families, and adult staff. Peas were scraped off the floor, leftovers were deposited into the 'pig bucket', hundreds of plates, utensils and cooking pans were washed, dried and put away. This work was repeated three times a day. The median age of these staff girls was 16 years old.
I couldn't help it. My eyes grew damp as I listened to their voices lifted in song as they swirled around me, eyeballing the waterfront and the promise of a few hours to bask in the sun. This would be the last time I would serve in the dining hall. It was time for me to pack up the car. Life would be different when I returned home to the 'real world'. In the real world, there would be discord and complaining. That would be even before I left for work in the morning! I yearned to live in a world where each day was spent with others who lifted praises to God, even in the messiness and long, tedious hours of life.
I thought back to the day in 1992, when we pulled up to the hotel room on the camp grounds. I was 25 years old. We had never been to Living Waters before, but had read in a brochure that they offered a Police Retreat. My former husband was a police officer, and we had booked the weekend well ahead of time. What we didn't know was that I would lose another baby, well into my 2nd trimester, the week prior to coming to camp. We decided not to cancel, though the trauma of that loss was only days old. We also didn't know that I would have physical complications for four solid months after the surgery the doctor performed to remove the baby. Had I lost the baby even a week later, I would have had to deliver her naturally.
I was in pain. My milk had come in. My body still believed there was someone who needed nourishment. I had to wait for two days after the time we found out the baby wasn't alive before I could have the surgery, and I numbly floated around the house caressing my full abdomen, feeling like I was a walking graveyard. I loved that baby.
As my husband unloaded the car, I made my way to the bed, and pretty much stayed there the whole weekend because I was hemorrhaging off and on. I did pray, and I thanked God for providing a place for us to be alone with each other. "Grammy" was watching our two preschool children so we could get away. There was no blaming of God - just questioning what He meant in all of this. I cried out to Him in agony. I will never know why until I get to heaven. My baby would have been 17 this year.
Now, at 43 years old, I was watching these 16 and 17 year old girls joyfully live out each day. I thought of my own lost child, and wondered if she might have been with me, had she lived, working alongside the others.
Still reflecting, I went to the laundry cabin and visited with Pearl and Virginia. I grew to love the time I was able to be with these Senior Saints, folding sheets and towels as we enjoyed each others' company.
We began to talk about our children. Pearl, now in her seventies, spoke of her sons. Then she told me a story of a baby she had lost, and shared the dream she has of what life might have been like if her little girl had lived. Virginia, age 84, also spoke of her own miscarriage. Back in her day, she had to bring the baby to the doctor herself. When she asked the doctor to tell her whether it was a boy or a girl, he simply told her that she needed to stop thinking about it. I relayed the details of the loss of my own little baby, and the memories that surfaced while at camp.
We three women, decades apart, shared a common bond. Relief washed over me as I realized I wasn't the only one who marked the years and told myself, "She would have been two, or five, or ten this year". Miscarriage leaves unfinished business in each mother's heart - no matter how many years pass. A reflective silence filled the room as each of us visited our own day of anguish. There was a comfort in remembering our little ones, and knowing, without words, how deep that love went. On some level, it brought about a sense of peace and yes, even joy.
Camp was not the real world. To me, it was more real. We were all free to be ourselves in a way that wouldn't be accepted any other place. We could let our guards down and show ourselves, warts and all. There was a love and understanding that was so desperately missing in the day to day grind outside the camp's sanctuary.
Leaving camp for the last time, honking the horn and wildly waving, I determined to wake joyfully each morning, letting others around me know I loved them. I pray often that God will give me the grace and ability to be the same "me" that I was at camp. The young voices dancing around me lifting up songs to the Lord are now replaced with the ungrateful demands of a hurried and impatient crowd. I can no longer spend time basking in the comaraderie and wisdom of my older friends around the washing machine, but I cherish the sisterhood we were able to share. These, and many other lessons will remain, cherished in my heart.
Dear Father,
Thank You for the experiences and people you send my way to teach me more about Your amazing love, protection and grace. May I not hoard your blessings and peace. Help me to allow You to shower others with your love through me. I thank you ahead of time for your grace on the days when I fall short.
In Jesus' name...
Friday, August 20, 2010
Get Real!
I think I think too much sometimes. When I sit down to write, my heart usually overflows with so many thought, my flying fingers can't type fast enough. When at last the tap runs dry, I go through each line and pick it apart. I painstakingly review each thought, wondering whether it's what I should be saying, whether someone could take offense, or who will find fault with it. What's up with human nature? Most of us mask, guard and hide our true selves so no one can ever see what's real. Ok, we all have had some, or many, experiences in our pasts which have taught us that we can't trust others to accept us. Too often, though, our worst critic lives inside our own brain.
What I want to say - what I really want to shout from the mountain top is that I have found the only One who knows me best - and He loves me, not only as much as any earthly father could, but a million times more! I am free! Free from the shame of who I used to be, and from any guilt for who I am now! You, too, are free if you believe in Him and the work He did on the cross! How long it took me to understand! (Will I ever really understand?)
To truly grasp why that fact means so much to me, you would have to know my "story". It is a long, twisted, soul-wrenching story of personal agony turned into redemptive joy. It is a story of abandonment, loss, sin, addiction, searching, depression, miscarriage, anger, tears, death, divorce, hopelessness, hate and panic. How can I sit here today with peace in my heart, love in my soul, bursting with gratitude and yearning to share it all with others? There is only one answer. The amazing, miraculous, grace of God.
"Jesus said..."I have something to tell you...two men owed money to a certain money lender. One owed him five hundred denarii (one denarii equaled about a day's wages), and the other, fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he cancelled the debts of both. Now which man will love him more?"
Simon replied, "I suppose the one who had the bigger debt cancelled."
"You have judged correctly," Jesus said..."Her many sins have been forgiven, so she loves much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little." (Luke 7:40-43, 47 NIV)
My debt has been cancelled. The debt was huge! If I worked all my life trying to be "good", it would never make up for all the "bad" I did. This is why I write, and let's face it - it's time to "get real"! Who are we really kidding when we pretend to be so much better than we are? Who am I helping if I put myself out there acting as though I've never felt what you felt, questioned the way you question, stumbled the way you stumbled, or reached up to God in all my sin and shame? There are enough "perfect" people out there who we can admire. My own personal testimony demands that I remember how great the day of my salvation truly was. I have stopped comparing my "goodness" or "badness" to those around me. There will always be someone who is "better", and someone who is "worse". So what? Jesus meets us all where we are and He knows how much our redemption cost. There is no comparison when it comes to how wrong we are without Him, and how right we are in His eyes when we embrace Him as our Lord and Savior!
My story is my own. It is a wonderful and exciting story to tell, even as I relate the desolate path that led me to the peace of Jesus and His cross! As I write my story in the posts of this blog, it is my prayer that you will be touched. Not by me, but by the One who took the mess that was my life and created something new and beautiful in my heart. Maybe, just maybe, something you read will tug at your heart. You might realize that you can reach out to the Hand that is already held out to you. Perhaps there will be something you can relate to. Some prison you find yourself held captive in. There is a way out. I know. I've been there. I had a life sentence, and I received a full pardon! There is no greater gift to a convict who has lived years, decades, in a cramped, windowless cell than complete and total freedom!
I want to share this journey with you. I want to pray for you, though I may not know you.
Heavenly Father,
How I thank you with every fiber of my being for Your love! I'm so glad you are my Father, my Friend, the only One I can turn to every moment of the day. How I cherish Your presence and comfort! My singing heart wants to run and find the weary, the sad, the discouraged ones and bring them to Your loving arms. Please help me show them You. Please touch them today, Lord. Let them know that they can come to You, just as they are. They don't have to "clean up" their lives ahead of time. All they have to do is give you their broken dreams, and You will heal their crushed hearts and lives and give them their own song to sing! It is with joy that I pray, and trust You to work mightily! Thank you, Jesus, and in Your name...
What I want to say - what I really want to shout from the mountain top is that I have found the only One who knows me best - and He loves me, not only as much as any earthly father could, but a million times more! I am free! Free from the shame of who I used to be, and from any guilt for who I am now! You, too, are free if you believe in Him and the work He did on the cross! How long it took me to understand! (Will I ever really understand?)
To truly grasp why that fact means so much to me, you would have to know my "story". It is a long, twisted, soul-wrenching story of personal agony turned into redemptive joy. It is a story of abandonment, loss, sin, addiction, searching, depression, miscarriage, anger, tears, death, divorce, hopelessness, hate and panic. How can I sit here today with peace in my heart, love in my soul, bursting with gratitude and yearning to share it all with others? There is only one answer. The amazing, miraculous, grace of God.
"Jesus said..."I have something to tell you...two men owed money to a certain money lender. One owed him five hundred denarii (one denarii equaled about a day's wages), and the other, fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he cancelled the debts of both. Now which man will love him more?"
Simon replied, "I suppose the one who had the bigger debt cancelled."
"You have judged correctly," Jesus said..."Her many sins have been forgiven, so she loves much. But he who has been forgiven little loves little." (Luke 7:40-43, 47 NIV)
My debt has been cancelled. The debt was huge! If I worked all my life trying to be "good", it would never make up for all the "bad" I did. This is why I write, and let's face it - it's time to "get real"! Who are we really kidding when we pretend to be so much better than we are? Who am I helping if I put myself out there acting as though I've never felt what you felt, questioned the way you question, stumbled the way you stumbled, or reached up to God in all my sin and shame? There are enough "perfect" people out there who we can admire. My own personal testimony demands that I remember how great the day of my salvation truly was. I have stopped comparing my "goodness" or "badness" to those around me. There will always be someone who is "better", and someone who is "worse". So what? Jesus meets us all where we are and He knows how much our redemption cost. There is no comparison when it comes to how wrong we are without Him, and how right we are in His eyes when we embrace Him as our Lord and Savior!
My story is my own. It is a wonderful and exciting story to tell, even as I relate the desolate path that led me to the peace of Jesus and His cross! As I write my story in the posts of this blog, it is my prayer that you will be touched. Not by me, but by the One who took the mess that was my life and created something new and beautiful in my heart. Maybe, just maybe, something you read will tug at your heart. You might realize that you can reach out to the Hand that is already held out to you. Perhaps there will be something you can relate to. Some prison you find yourself held captive in. There is a way out. I know. I've been there. I had a life sentence, and I received a full pardon! There is no greater gift to a convict who has lived years, decades, in a cramped, windowless cell than complete and total freedom!
I want to share this journey with you. I want to pray for you, though I may not know you.
Heavenly Father,
How I thank you with every fiber of my being for Your love! I'm so glad you are my Father, my Friend, the only One I can turn to every moment of the day. How I cherish Your presence and comfort! My singing heart wants to run and find the weary, the sad, the discouraged ones and bring them to Your loving arms. Please help me show them You. Please touch them today, Lord. Let them know that they can come to You, just as they are. They don't have to "clean up" their lives ahead of time. All they have to do is give you their broken dreams, and You will heal their crushed hearts and lives and give them their own song to sing! It is with joy that I pray, and trust You to work mightily! Thank you, Jesus, and in Your name...
Thursday, August 19, 2010
God Can Use That!
I just love my friend, Kathie. She and I get together for a weekly "prayer and share". Panicking, I told her when Guideposts called to let me know a photographer was coming for the photo shoot for my story. It seemed like the worst possible time for this!
I was in the middle of a physical battle that I seemed to be losing. Last summer, I received radiation to destroy my thyroid in an effort to put an end to a 15-plus year battle with Graves Disease. The thyroid affects the metabolism, along with virtually everything else in a person's body. Half my hair fell out. I packed on 40 pounds, even though the doctors kept adjusting my synthetic thyroid medicine, trying to find just the right dose. I had lost my job because I had what was called a Thyroid Storm, had to be put on heart pills to fend off a heart attack, and was rushed to the hospital three times, with a resting heart rate of nearly 200 beats per minute.
Though I came home to care for Gram, I was literally broke. I came home with the clothes on my back, and found that the meager belongings I had left here in NH were ruined in a basement flood.
After my radiation treatment, I began losing strength in the right side of my body. There were some days I could barely walk. I blamed everything on the radiation until I received an MRI. Referred to a neurologist, I was told there were several "spots" on my brain. The eventual diagnosis is Multiple Sclerosis, though there is really no difinitive test. The root cause of the Graves Disease, the MS, and the miscarriages is Autoimmune Disease. A phenomenon in which the body attacks itself.
I confided all this in Kathie, whining, "Why now, when I am struggling with all of this, my hair is still falling out in clumps, and I feel so fat?"
"God can use that!" she exclaimed with excitement.
Then, Kathie did something amazing. She gave me some clothes to wear for the "big day". She remained positive, where I was discouraged. She told me, "Everyone needs a girlfriend in times like these", dropping a huge bag of clothes on the living room floor.
Late at night, I would lie in my bed praying, "Please, God. Please, please, please find a way to make it possible for me to get my hair done. I also need a manicure. And some jewelry. You know I don't even have the money to grab something at the Dollar Store down the street. I'm so embarrassed. Every woman wants to feel pretty in a picture, and this picture is HUGE for me."
I did pray every night as the photo shoot loomed in the horizon. There were no gift baskets dropped down from heaven, and no rich uncle came forward. I determined in my heart that God must have a reason for me to go forward without the things I had so desperately prayed for. It could be that someone, somewhere might be able to relate to the thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged lady that I was. And I clung to Kathie's certainty that, "God can use that!"
The day the photographer called to say he was coming an hour early, my daughter, Shelli, my son's girlfriend, Kay, and I giggled and tore around the house trying to neaten up and slap make-up on my face. Kay brought over a colorful sweater, Shelli artfully applied eye shadow, and I fumbled with Kay's hair straightener. About five hundred frames later, the photographer left.
Guideposts came in the mail the other day. I waited for it like a little kid at Christmas. I was still walking through the door after work as my son, Danny announced, "Mom, your magazine came, and they sooo "photo-shopped" you!"
Passing the magazine around, the kids and I poured over the photos. Did I look like that thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged woman I was afraid of? Yes, I did, but my attention was drawn to the image of another woman on the pages, standing next to her husband, smiling.
She had white hair, no jewelry, no make-up, and was wearing a dress I had seen her in a million times before. She was my Gram, and she was lovely.
Suddenly, everything crashed into perspective as I realized that Gram's life was a thing of beauty. Flashy jewelry and a perfect manicure would have looked out of place on her snowy white skin. She had always been "just" Gram, yet to me, she was one of the most attractive women I have ever known.
When all was said and done, it all worked out the way it should have. The way God, in His wisdom, had planned it. I learned to be thankful for the opportunity to share my Gram with others, and her beauty was evident on each page. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
I was in the middle of a physical battle that I seemed to be losing. Last summer, I received radiation to destroy my thyroid in an effort to put an end to a 15-plus year battle with Graves Disease. The thyroid affects the metabolism, along with virtually everything else in a person's body. Half my hair fell out. I packed on 40 pounds, even though the doctors kept adjusting my synthetic thyroid medicine, trying to find just the right dose. I had lost my job because I had what was called a Thyroid Storm, had to be put on heart pills to fend off a heart attack, and was rushed to the hospital three times, with a resting heart rate of nearly 200 beats per minute.
Though I came home to care for Gram, I was literally broke. I came home with the clothes on my back, and found that the meager belongings I had left here in NH were ruined in a basement flood.
After my radiation treatment, I began losing strength in the right side of my body. There were some days I could barely walk. I blamed everything on the radiation until I received an MRI. Referred to a neurologist, I was told there were several "spots" on my brain. The eventual diagnosis is Multiple Sclerosis, though there is really no difinitive test. The root cause of the Graves Disease, the MS, and the miscarriages is Autoimmune Disease. A phenomenon in which the body attacks itself.
I confided all this in Kathie, whining, "Why now, when I am struggling with all of this, my hair is still falling out in clumps, and I feel so fat?"
"God can use that!" she exclaimed with excitement.
Then, Kathie did something amazing. She gave me some clothes to wear for the "big day". She remained positive, where I was discouraged. She told me, "Everyone needs a girlfriend in times like these", dropping a huge bag of clothes on the living room floor.
Late at night, I would lie in my bed praying, "Please, God. Please, please, please find a way to make it possible for me to get my hair done. I also need a manicure. And some jewelry. You know I don't even have the money to grab something at the Dollar Store down the street. I'm so embarrassed. Every woman wants to feel pretty in a picture, and this picture is HUGE for me."
I did pray every night as the photo shoot loomed in the horizon. There were no gift baskets dropped down from heaven, and no rich uncle came forward. I determined in my heart that God must have a reason for me to go forward without the things I had so desperately prayed for. It could be that someone, somewhere might be able to relate to the thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged lady that I was. And I clung to Kathie's certainty that, "God can use that!"
The day the photographer called to say he was coming an hour early, my daughter, Shelli, my son's girlfriend, Kay, and I giggled and tore around the house trying to neaten up and slap make-up on my face. Kay brought over a colorful sweater, Shelli artfully applied eye shadow, and I fumbled with Kay's hair straightener. About five hundred frames later, the photographer left.
Guideposts came in the mail the other day. I waited for it like a little kid at Christmas. I was still walking through the door after work as my son, Danny announced, "Mom, your magazine came, and they sooo "photo-shopped" you!"
Passing the magazine around, the kids and I poured over the photos. Did I look like that thin-haired, chubby, plain, middle-aged woman I was afraid of? Yes, I did, but my attention was drawn to the image of another woman on the pages, standing next to her husband, smiling.
She had white hair, no jewelry, no make-up, and was wearing a dress I had seen her in a million times before. She was my Gram, and she was lovely.
Suddenly, everything crashed into perspective as I realized that Gram's life was a thing of beauty. Flashy jewelry and a perfect manicure would have looked out of place on her snowy white skin. She had always been "just" Gram, yet to me, she was one of the most attractive women I have ever known.
When all was said and done, it all worked out the way it should have. The way God, in His wisdom, had planned it. I learned to be thankful for the opportunity to share my Gram with others, and her beauty was evident on each page. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Lessons From Camp (part 1)
Well, I'm back safe and sound from my scheduled break, thoroughly rested and absolutely bursting with stories to share! It is my prayer that this time off and the lessons learned up at "camp" will allow me to uplift and encourage others along the way. I know just where to begin...
Before we even hit the road to go serve at the Christian camp up north, I was already in turmoil, worrying about whether I should wear shorts or the three pairs of pants I packed. The tattoo on my ankle seemed to be throbbing with the anxiety it produced as I wondered the whole way there whether I would be taken seriously or not. I believed, from experience, that I would be "accepted", but I wasn't sure whether people there would give me a chance to serve Christ as they do because of what the tattoo seemed to say about me. The thing is - everything the tattoo "said" was true. At least is was true for the years that I rebelliously galloped off the path Christ chose for me.
I got my tattoo when I was seventeen years old. I paid for it in cocaine. The guy upstairs did tattoos out of his apartment, so we struck a deal, got high, and that was that. It was also twenty-five years ago. Now I was a 43 year old grandmother who wanted to share Christ's love with others, and I just knew what "they" would be thinking. "They" would smile and welcome me to their Christian camp, put me to work in the kitchen, hidden from the "real" ministry and disapprove of my lifestyle with their knowing glances behind my back. My tattoo would scream out that I was a poor role model and someone who needed to be watched. I knew the sad truth was that whatever they were thinking, it couldn't be as bad as what really transpired to get that tattoo on my body.
I made it through the first sweltering day with my long pants on, and eyeballed the waterfront area wondering how I would get from the beach area to the water without my ankle being seen. The second day seemed even hotter. By the third day, I dejectedly made my way to the office to confront the situation head-on. I knew I wanted to talk to the director's wife because I didn't want people discussing my dilemma up the chain of command. If she told me to either continue wearing pants, or even to pack up and go home, at least she would be the only one who would know why - I hoped.
Mustering my courage, I blurted out the fact that I have a tattoo, and would she like me to wear pants in an effort to be a good example to the teenaged staff and campers. Karen looked at me and smiled. "We don't judge people here. You must be boiling hot! Go put some shorts on!"
I weakly began to tell her how I knew it looked bad, and how I've changed so much since then, and how I now considered the tattoo to be a scar that reminds me of a former life...breaking into my apologies she simply said, "You can talk about it in your testimony", gave me a wonderful, warm, loving, motherly smile, and that was that.
I don't think I need to say much more here, do I? If you are the ashamed one reading this, please know that there is love in the arms of God! I pray you will find His children to be as loving and forgiving as He is! If you are a child of God who tends to "read a book by it's cover" in an effort to justify your prejudice against others - stop it! You are breaking their hearts, God's heart, and preventing yourself from having truly loving interactions with others.
That's all :)
Dear Heavenly Father,
May I always remember that You are the only One who knows the hearts of others. May all my interactions be peppered with love, no matter what, because you have not only required it, you modeled it. Thank you for your amazing love and grace in my own life! Teach me not to hoard it! In Jesus name, Amen.
Before we even hit the road to go serve at the Christian camp up north, I was already in turmoil, worrying about whether I should wear shorts or the three pairs of pants I packed. The tattoo on my ankle seemed to be throbbing with the anxiety it produced as I wondered the whole way there whether I would be taken seriously or not. I believed, from experience, that I would be "accepted", but I wasn't sure whether people there would give me a chance to serve Christ as they do because of what the tattoo seemed to say about me. The thing is - everything the tattoo "said" was true. At least is was true for the years that I rebelliously galloped off the path Christ chose for me.
I got my tattoo when I was seventeen years old. I paid for it in cocaine. The guy upstairs did tattoos out of his apartment, so we struck a deal, got high, and that was that. It was also twenty-five years ago. Now I was a 43 year old grandmother who wanted to share Christ's love with others, and I just knew what "they" would be thinking. "They" would smile and welcome me to their Christian camp, put me to work in the kitchen, hidden from the "real" ministry and disapprove of my lifestyle with their knowing glances behind my back. My tattoo would scream out that I was a poor role model and someone who needed to be watched. I knew the sad truth was that whatever they were thinking, it couldn't be as bad as what really transpired to get that tattoo on my body.
I made it through the first sweltering day with my long pants on, and eyeballed the waterfront area wondering how I would get from the beach area to the water without my ankle being seen. The second day seemed even hotter. By the third day, I dejectedly made my way to the office to confront the situation head-on. I knew I wanted to talk to the director's wife because I didn't want people discussing my dilemma up the chain of command. If she told me to either continue wearing pants, or even to pack up and go home, at least she would be the only one who would know why - I hoped.
Mustering my courage, I blurted out the fact that I have a tattoo, and would she like me to wear pants in an effort to be a good example to the teenaged staff and campers. Karen looked at me and smiled. "We don't judge people here. You must be boiling hot! Go put some shorts on!"
I weakly began to tell her how I knew it looked bad, and how I've changed so much since then, and how I now considered the tattoo to be a scar that reminds me of a former life...breaking into my apologies she simply said, "You can talk about it in your testimony", gave me a wonderful, warm, loving, motherly smile, and that was that.
I don't think I need to say much more here, do I? If you are the ashamed one reading this, please know that there is love in the arms of God! I pray you will find His children to be as loving and forgiving as He is! If you are a child of God who tends to "read a book by it's cover" in an effort to justify your prejudice against others - stop it! You are breaking their hearts, God's heart, and preventing yourself from having truly loving interactions with others.
That's all :)
Dear Heavenly Father,
May I always remember that You are the only One who knows the hearts of others. May all my interactions be peppered with love, no matter what, because you have not only required it, you modeled it. Thank you for your amazing love and grace in my own life! Teach me not to hoard it! In Jesus name, Amen.
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